I would, first of all, like to dedicate this latest Blog post to the loving memory of a fabulous and, in his day, undeniably gorgeous actor, Jeff Conaway, who sadly passed away after an overdose on prescription drugs, on Friday 27th May 2011. A great man was Conaway…obviously best known for his comb-flicking, hip-gyrating, dice-swinging, ‘how low can you go’ antics as Kenickie in everyone’s favourite 50s get up, Grease. I will personally, however, never forget his bit-part in one of my so-tragically-awful-it’s-brilliant films ‘Jawbreaker’ as Marcy’s Dad, particularly his rendition of ‘I Think We’re Alone Now’, by Tiffany. Jeff would want to be remembered in this way I am sure of it, we love you Jeff and hope you are looking down upon us, in that great 50’s themed dance-off in the sky.
So, May is over, and with it comes the end of my week of work-freedom, in which I have thoroughly adjusted to life as a full-time author, now having completed over 25,000 words of my future best seller! I am, of course, now so consumed with my novel again, that I am imagining traipsing down a cobbled Berlin street all done up with red lips and a pencil skirt, off to see my secret lover…and that is all I will tell you, for you will have to read about Vera and her Dark Misfortunes, as and when it becomes a published best seller. Until then…I’ll have to keep Schtum!
I decided, after a particular cancelling incident involving everyone’s favourite ‘will he bother, won’t he bother’ sidekick ‘The Fox’, that I needed to ensure that my week off work was productive and that, after months of soul searching and getting to grips with actually getting off my arse and putting my novel ideas down on paper, I was probably in need of some like-minded, bookish types, who could further inspire my story-weaving and tale-spinning. I suppose it is fair to say that I have, sort of, fallen in love with the Internet again, having found not just one, but two writer’s clubs to frequent. Excitement all round, with a vain hope of meeting a bespectacled, tattooed, geek-chic male writer, on whom I can depend on for inspiration…and maybe cuddles.
Still, I digress, Wednesday reared its sunny head and I trotted off to Pimlico to my new Writer’s Club. Set in a small Fine Art Gallery, I felt really quite refined as I stepped inside, exercise book quivering in hand, making polite conversation with the other 8 writers. It was a brilliant evening though, full of exercises and debates and chances for me to plug Neil Gaiman’s ‘Neverwhere’ like a mad woman addicted to fantasy novels (which I am). If this is what Writer’s Club is all about, I am well up for that. Sadly there were no bespectacled male writers into whom, I could dig my claws, but there was inspiration flying around the room and copious amounts of tea and biscuits. Roll on next week…
Mummy Musing and Step-Dad Musing also took a trip to London this week, to see Eric Clapton perform at the Royal Albert Hall. Mummy Musing was on top form, arriving with some homemade cheese scones and a barrelful of hilarity as usual; they questioned why I met them with a Financial Times in hand…do not worry…I was simply keen to read Stephen Fry’s interview with Lady Gaga. The biggest surprise came when Mummy Musing, after years of us talking about booking it, marched up to the Lyceum Theatre to book tickets to see Lion King, a show I have been DYING to see since its conception, however many years ago. Being a die-hard fan of the film, September 6th cannot come soon enough for me and Mummy Musing, and I will be eager to be kissed by an animatronic giraffe.
My week off was topped off with a night out, to officially wave goodbye to the stunning Miss Lloyd, who returns to her home country of Northern Ireland at the beginning of June to retrain as a PE teacher, and spend a few mad months in Magaluf beforehand. We went right back to where it all started, which was B@1 in Shoreditch; a rather camp group of waiters, a lot of Lionel Richie and one incredibly boring rugby player later, I realised I had consumed more spirits than I thought humanly possible and remembered why I don’t like to go to that bar too often. That was where, for those of who will be familiar with my earlier posts, I have picked up the most random of men including Mr Ryman’s the Bar Manager and the Shoreditch Serge-A-Like. I was, however, compared to a Suicide Girl pin-up, which is a new one to add to the list, danced the night away with Lovemenot, and saw Miss Lloyd, and her fabulous new pink lipstick, off in style. I will not be blogging my goodbyes just yet though, as we are planning another night out next weekend, then I’ll have something fittingly tear-jerking to Blog, I am sure of it. And I may even have to mention the ‘Tom/Ryan’ mix up – he’s the lead singer Lloyd, the fit one! For now, I shall just dedicate this Gaga-inspired Blog title to you and your wicked and wonderful ways.
Now to a little fable I would like to name ‘The Fox and The Phone Call’. Yes that’s right, The Fox’s lack of consistency and general bad planning, was very much at the forefront of my mind in the last week; so much so, that I actually deleted his number for a second time vowing that all 22-year-olds were now indefinitely struck off the list. We had planned a Sunday meet up, one that I actually declined a lovely dinner date at our friend Hannah’s house to attend, only to not hear from The Fox until midday THAT DAY (please bear in mind that we would potentially have been meeting up in the PM), when he seemed to think a snivelling, half-apologetic text message and something about planning an observed lesson would suffice. Now, anyone who knows me, will know I can play the frosty White Queen to a ‘T’ as and when I need to…Yup that’s right, Barbara Kellerman has nothing on me (look her up, I can’t be bothered to explain; if you are so uncultured as to not have watched the BBC’s adaptation of Narnia in 1989, religiously, then it really is not my place to re-educate you), so I saw it fitting to simply reply ‘OK’ to his message and declare to Lovemenot and Hannah (re-scheduled dinner was lovely, thank you) that I would not be seeing him again. Some thought this was harsh, I thought it important to state my dislike for being let down at the last minute. Still, there was running, there was writing, there was signing for something reflexology-based and there was a rather splendid morning spent at Maison Bertaux with my fellow Comedian-stalker Miss Pritchard, to take my mind off of The Fox's questionable antics.
Cut to a breezy Wednesday evening, I am leaving my Writer’s Club, all inspired and writer-like, I pull out my phone to find two missed calls and a voicemail from…THE FOX (obviously I memorised the last few digits of his number). I left it a good 45 minutes before calling back, to his copious apologies and promises to make it up to me. We agreed Tuesday, the planning is up to him as a way of ‘making it up to me’, yes I caved, of course I did, I'm not made of stone. Lovemenot, after some consideration, concluded that a) I was a flake after agreeing, in such a short space of time, to see him again and b) he must really like me, as she didn’t think he would get in touch after my extremely blunt message. If you hadn’t gathered already, Lovemenot is somewhat laid-back compared to me, hence why Mr On-Off-On-Again-Off-Again was never just Mr On-Off. Still, she implores me, much like I implore myself, to go forth and Fox it up, see what happens and, in the mean time, dodge boring rugby players at all damn costs – epic FAIL. So we’ll see what Tuesday has to offer; I am aware that he is hoping for good weather and that we are meeting at Highbury and if the previous dates are anything to go by, it will most probably involve copious in-taking of Cider, I should think. I just hope to God it has nothing to do with Arsenal, or football at all really.
I think that’s probably about all from me, it’s fast approaching 11pm and I am determined to get to the 26,000 word mark by the time I drag myself back to work on Wednesday. I do hope you all plan to see in June in a fitting manner, having acquired more crud from our VM department to‘re-love’, I am off in search of a vintage hat stand and some fairy lights.
Mwah
PS Dear Harold Camping – you were wrong about May 21st being the last day on Earth. Your stupidity did, however, result in being responsible for approximately 250 deaths by suicide. My question remains this; Darling, why bother moving the goalposts to October, when any half-normal person knows you are nothing more than a strange and insane old man with a rather painful grudge/need to feel important and special?
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